To Burn and Rise from Ashes
by Unadulterated
Summary: Colonel, alchemist, friend, lover, son. Even then, so many words are needed to truly describe him, that peculiarly individual soul, as he journeys through the life he's been given - perhaps one not so kind. 100 themes tribute to Roy Mustang.
1. Introduction

**This is dedicated to Griselda Banks, inspired by her absolutely amazing drabble fic Till I'm a Hundred, You Idiot, which is basically parental Roy/Ed to the 100 Edwin themes. Like I said, amazing. So I wanted to try my hand at it, except this one is just for Mustang in general, not always with Ed or Riza or anyone else. Though they will pop up from chapter to chapter, I assure you.**

**Disclaimer: Do I look like a cow to you? Ahem. On second thought, don't answer that. No, I'm not Arakawa-sensei, and therefore no, I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.**

**I do not even pretend to be British, I really don't, and I seriously doubt I ever sound that way. American here. And so saying, excuse my use of 'Mummy' here, it just seems to me that little Roy would call his mother that rather than 'Mommy.' If that makes sense. Personal preference, I guess. Anyway, moving on.**

**I will also say that in any given chapter there will be NO YAOI.**

**Enjoy. XD**

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Theme 1: Introduction

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Three years old wasn't very big.

Big was Mummy and Dad. Big was the house. Big was Trevor, the boarhound that lived with them at the house.

Big was this strange place with ladies in pretty dresses and another lady holding his hand. She'd said to call her Chris. Little Roy wasn't quite sure what to think about that.

Big things were supposed to stay. So where was Mummy?

"Who's this, Madame Christmas?" one of the ladies asked.

"My nephew, Roy. He'll be living with us from now on."

"Oh, I heard about your brother…" Roy shuffled his little loafered feet away from the scary-looking sticks under her shoes, like Mummy would wear when she and Dad went somewhere special. "…I'm so sorry, his wife too?…"

Where was his Mummy?

Little Roy bit his lip and stared down at his shoes. The left one was scuffed near the toe, where he'd been kicking a rock over and over when the big lady—Chris—had stood near by a big hole in the ground. Why had they been burying boxes, anyway? The clothes Chris had put him in were uncomfortable, and Roy wiped his nose on the scratchy sleeve. He shuffled his feet again. Did anyone care that he had to go potty?

"Cwiss?" Roy said softly, leaning close into Chris's leg. The murmuring far above his head stopped, and his call was answered as she knelt down.

"Yes, hun?"

Roy blinked at her and sniffed slightly. Hun? Was that a person or a thing? Was that _him_? "I—I gotta go _potty_," he whispered forcefully, because Mummy always frowned when he said it loud in front of other ladies.

"Of course, hun," Chris said, and scooped him up. Roy squeaked and wriggled, uncomfortable in this lady's arms. He didn't even know her—where was Mummy?

Roy held on tight to her neck all the same as they moved around a table to the back of the room. Chris opened a door and let him inside, helping him until he was done. She carried him back out; he didn't really like being held by Chris, but he especially didn't like the ladies' shoes, so it was better up here.

The murmuring started again with some different ladies, and Roy was close enough to hear this time, but they used weird words like 'funeral' and 'orphan' and 'adopted' along with sad voices, so he stopped listening. After a while, he yawned. Today had been a strange, long day and for once he actually _wanted_ it to be bedtime. Mummy would sing him a lullaby and then maybe he wouldn't have to keep being picked up by this Chris lady.

Uncomfortable with the strange territory, he began squirming again. "Cwiss," Roy whined, "I want Mummy."

Again, the murmuring stilled. Roy was burying his sniffling nose into Chris's shoulder, and so he didn't see the stricken expression on the woman's face who stood by, or the saddened one that had drifted onto Chris's own features.

"Shh, hun," she whispered, gently bouncing him in a way that Roy figured was supposed to make him sleepy. He already was, anyway, but why? "It's gonna be okay."

"It hasn't sunk in yet," the other woman said quietly. "He doesn't understand why she's not here."

"He's three years old, Karen, give him a break," Chris admonished, then sighed. "I just hope it doesn't take too long for him to realize that his Mummy's not coming back."

"I want Mummy," Roy pouted again, his voice muffled by the black material of the dress Chris had worn to her brother and sister-in-law's funeral.

"It's all gonna be okay, Roy-boy," Chris whispered. "You tired?"

Sullenly, Roy nodded, pulling his face away from Chris in order to rub a fist at his eye. "I'm sweepy. Where's Mummy?"

"She's not here, baby," Chris sighed. "She's not here. Let's go put you to bed."

Ten minutes later, Chris had him tucked in a small room that she'd prepared for her nephew. Little Roy was still sniffing at the injustice of being deprived of the presence of his beloved mother. Should she sing a lullaby or not? She couldn't remember the last time she'd heard one, much less sung one herself. In the end, she decided she'd go find a couple she could sing to the boy, but tonight, the night when he probably needed it most, she wouldn't.

Well. He'd probably need it most when he finally realized his parents were gone.

"You and me were designed to be lonely, weren't we, Roy-boy?" Chris sighed down to her nephew—foster-son, really. He blinked up at her blankly and she looked up toward the ceiling, in the general direction of a god she didn't believe in.

"Welcome to Madame Christmas's brothel, kid," she said quietly. "This is your new home until you can get a life of your own."

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**I don't have a set update schedule for this, but I imagine that there won't be more than two weeks between updates except for really impossible themes.**

**Drop a line if you feel so inclined. XD**

**~Un**Adulterat_ed_


	2. Broken Pieces

… **So much for two weeks, right? Well, in my defense, I had to write this thing twice and found it a very tricky prompt, and then my beta had a very busy life for a little while, though now she got it to me. Thanks to AprilJoy for that. Here you go! Enjoy!**

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Theme 2: Broken Pieces.

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A quaint little thing, a gun was.

So small, easily held in a hand. Just a little powder and a spark in the right place and next thing you knew it was killing like there was no tomorrow. Kind of reminded Roy of himself.

The spark, that is. And the killing.

It was a small little thing, held in his hand. Pointing at his head.

Damned trigger. _That_ was the tricky part—how was he supposed to pull it? Roy's heart was beating fast as he stared at the barrel of the gun pointed between his eyes. Die. Just die, Roy, who needs you anyway?

A hundred answers instantly came to mind, but he stubbornly shoved them away. Forget the promises he'd made to Maes just a few short months ago, forget those people, he had to die. (He _wanted, needed_ to die.)

He hadn't expected it to be quite so hard, is all. Should have been easy; why was his soul different from any other?

The meager cushions on the couch in his small apartment supported him from below. Should he kneel on the floor, so he could properly lie down in death? No, there was nothing proper about this. He deserved nothing proper. Just had to pull the trigger… Pull the trigger and end it all, _pull the damn trigger, Roy_…

His quick breathing and the roaring in his ears drowned out the jiggle of the key in the lock, of the door opening and spry footsteps intruding in his home.

"Yo, Roy, Gracia made some of that spinach quiche! Remember—"

The voice woke him up too late, and there was a crash of porcelain on the floor, and as his head moved slowly through a sea despair, he barely managed to see Maes before he'd been tackled, gun wrested from his hand and face pressed into the couch. He rubbed his fingers together, a reflexive defensive movement, but he'd already removed his gloves and so it was a useless gesture.

"_What the hell are you doing?_" Maes roared. The gun clattered to the floor, thrown aside, and a second hand joined the first in holding Roy against the back of the couch. It didn't help; Roy wasn't fighting him anyway. Just closing his eyes, wishing he could feel the sting of tears, instead of just the nameless mess inside him gnawing away at anything with any emotion left.

His old friend pulled him back, slightly, still holding tight to his arms, and demanded again in a voice tight with betrayal, "What the _hell_ did you think you were doing, Roy?"

"I'm sorry," Roy breathed. He hadn't meant… People to live for. He had people to live for. He didn't even have the excuse of forgetting that—he knew that when he'd held the gun to his own head.

"Sorry? _Sorry?_ Damn you, Roy, did the promises you made _three months ago_ mean absolutely_ anything_ to you or did the words just sound pretty?" Maes growled. "Get a _grip_. You're not the only killer from Ishval! You _are_, however, the one who was supposed to _end _it!" The soldier shoved the alchemist hard against the couch as he rose up to his feet. Fear flashed in Maes' eyes, staring at the hopeless form of his best friend, but there was anger there too.

He scooped the gun up off the floor as he made his way to the door, stepping carefully around the mess of porcelain and food that was what was left of Gracia's heavenly spinach quiche. He paused before opening it.

"I can't make you live, Roy. I can save your life over and over, but you're the one who's got to drag your sorry self back into the light." He sighed heavily, toeing a mostly-intact slice of quiche and wondering if Roy was even really listening to him. "You're missing out on the food. It's kind of messed up—but you seem convinced you're still a dog, so I'm sure you won't mind scrounging it off the floor," he added bitterly.

Frustration and helplessness; perhaps it was just to spite the motionless figure on the couch that he left the shattered mess on the floor.

Roy reclined back on the couch after the door had closed. He felt guilty about that little encounter just now, and damn it all if he wasn't also sorry that Gracia's quiche had been wasted. He considered rising to his feet, but it wasn't worth it, not this time.

The first time this had happened, Maes had completely panicked. Threw the gun across the room, slapped Roy across the face, shook him and shook him and swore at him with a voice as terrified as his eyes. Roy had cried, promised never to do it again, and Maes had got him a drink and they stayed in the living room all night. This time, there was fear, but more anger.

Roy sighed—he was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to pull the trigger anyway. Slowly, he rose to his feet. He should at least return the dish to the newlyweds, no matter his personal issues. There was some chalk in the closet by the door…

It twisted his stomach to be using any kind of alchemy, but it wasn't flame alchemy, and so he managed to calm his breathing. The blue light made him flinch and his hands would have trembled if they hadn't been pressed to the circle's circumference.

The porcelain dish and its lid sat in the center of the circle, whole and perfect. The remains of the quiche was not as neat; the only thing Roy was any good at with organic matter when it came to alchemy was burning it.

Roy picked up the dish and stared at it for a long moment, wondering if he really had the strength to go to Maes' home after such an encounter. But as much of a coward as he may be, he couldn't resist the need to see Maes again. It was so much easier to live than to die, and he needed his friend.

So he took a breath, slipped on some shoes, and went out the door.

* * *

It was with dread that he rang the doorbell and waited for an answer. Roy really wasn't sure who he wanted it to be; Maes or his apparently flawless wife. But he didn't get to choose.

It was Maes.

Roy felt shaky and stupid, standing there outside the door to Maes' apartment holding an empty dish and lid. There was nothing to say, and he half-heartedly lifted the dish two inches, a motion for Maes to take it.

He didn't. Maes stared at him for at least three full minutes, studying his face, and then finally seemed to notice the dish. Looked back up to Roy's face. And just raised one eyebrow.

"I'm sorry," Roy said wretchedly. "I didn't…" He trailed off, not even knowing what he was supposed to say, and swore softly. "I just came to return the dish."

Maes nodded and stood aside, silently inviting him in. Roy could feel the shadows following him, tainting the quaint apartment space, and wondered why Maes bothered standing beside him even now. They made their way to the kitchen, and Maes finally took the dish from him to put it away in a cupboard.

"Thanks for bringing that back. Gracia loves that dish."

Casually, Maes leaned against the countertop. It didn't seem to be a dismissal, and so Roy remained in the kitchen, half-leaning against the kitchen table, barely able to look at his friend. The image of the shattered dish was imprinted on the back of his eyelids, but he didn't know what to look at if he opened them again.

Broken porcelain was never Roy's favorite omen. He still remembered being seven years old and accidentally knocking that Aerugan vase onto the floor and seeing it shatter into a million pieces. Remembered the tears in Chris's eyes when she received word just the next day that her only son had been killed in a skirmish on the southern border.

Roy didn't want a soldier to die this time, and couldn't help but feel a childish superstition allow him relief, since he _had_ fixed it after it had been broken.

Some things were harder to fix.

"Alchemy's pretty useful," Roy said softly. "Able to fix just about anything that breaks. You just have to use it right."

Maes just looked at him, not even bothering to raise an eyebrow and his friend's random rambling.

"But people break too," Roy continued. "And… alchemy doesn't work so well then. You need something else." Finally, finally he managed to meet Maes' eyes. "That's something I just don't have, Maes. But—you do. And I don't mean to be… a _burden_, or anything, but… that's what I need."

God. It was next to impossible to ask for help without feeling like an utterly pathetic piece of work. Asking Maes to solve all his problems, what was he thinking? Roy stopped leaning against the table and started for the door; he'd outstayed his welcome.

"Damn, Roy, never thought you'd ask."

Roy paused, turned to his friend with altogether too much hope. Maes had a kind of depressed half-smile on his face and was shaking his head. He strode across the kitchen and clapped a hand on Roy's stiffly surprised shoulder.

"I'm no alchemist. I'm a soldier. And more, I'm your friend. Look, you need help, you got me—all you have to do is ask, ever. We may be a broken mess, but at least I'm pretty sure we can find all the pieces around here somewhere."

Relief. Roy opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the sound was stuck in his throat and for the first time that day he felt tears pricking at his eyes. Thank you wouldn't suffice—no words could.

Instead, he wrapped Maes in a hug, clapping him on the back and trying not to cry on the shoulder of the man who was practically his brother.

Sometimes everything shattered, and that was okay, so long as there was someone to put the broken pieces back together again.

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**Drop a line if you feel so inclined. XD Thanks for reading!**

**~Un**Adulterat_ed_


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